


Phoenix

by titC



Series: The Fortnight of Latin Titles [3]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, but with feels, fire and water, it wasn't meant to have so many feels, sex without naughty words, sorry - Freeform, trying and failing to write p0rn again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 17:45:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: First time tale for the devil and a miracle.





	Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> One day, I'll manage to crank out a PWP fic with no angst, no overspilling feels, and actual sex words.  
> Today is not that day.

The last few weeks – months, to be honest – had been frankly overwhelming. Little by little, she’d gotten closer to Lucifer, at first against her better judgment. Then, things had accelerated; he’d asked her out then stood her up, he’d fought for her at Smith’s trial then was one of the reasons he got out, she found out how desperate for affection he was (although she wasn’t sure he realized it himself) and then… Then, she finally kissed him on a chilly beach, after he’d just laid out his heart at her feet and stomped on it and seemed to think it was better for her. Seemed to think he wasn’t worth her – he, Lucifer Morningstar of the inflated ego and overconfidence layered over barely hidden loneliness and a conviction he could never have what he wanted. And yet, right then, he was proving there was more love in him than there was water in all the seas and oceans and rivers of the world. Everything, suddenly, had slotted in place and… yes. She wanted him, flaws and all.

And she got poisoned. She’d really believed she’d die, then; more so than when she got shot, because that had mostly been pain and haziness. But this time, it had been running against the clock, then being stuck in a hospital bed while her body was breaking down, holding her daughter and making plans with Dan for their little monkey’s future while knowing she only had a few hours left, the last ones in horrendous pain – or unconsciousness. And then salvation… it had been so sweet. Life had been so sweet, waking up again and feeling like shit, hurting everywhere and probably looking like she felt; but there had been Dan and Trixie with her to tell her she was good, she was alive, she’d _stay_ alive; and then there had been Lucifer.

And _then_ , there had been hurt and anger.

She was grateful, so grateful for the found family that had grown around her – and in no little part thanks to Lucifer; she’d never have met Maze or Linda without him. And they’d all been here for her when she almost died, when he disappeared, when he had to be brought back to reason. When she finally learned who he really was. _Was that so hard_ , she’d said. _Why are you so scared of me?_

She’d known she was missing something, but he’d believed he’d break her, he’d terrify her. But… he hadn’t, after all; and now, she had him. She knew him. He tried to make himself scarce but everyone gathered to help. Linda had told her about her own reaction, Amenadiel had explained a few more things that she honestly still had to wrap her head around, Maze had lured him with the promise of new drugs, Trixie and Dan had held potential escape routes out of the (fake) dealer's building because they all knew he’d try to avoid them, and Ella had given her the best pep talk ever (and prepared a stash of alcohol and food, needed for either success or failure).

And she’d won him back, she had; and they’d had an impromptu picnic in a mostly empty flat and she’d been full of hope when he’d finally, finally let his eyes turn from (resigned) brown to (terrified) red. He hadn’t seem to understand when she’d held out the wine for him to open, when she’d settled right against him on the floorboards, their backs to the wall and the sun streaming through the window and drawing long shadows as it went through the bottle and their glasses. She’d remembered then, that one of his names had been Lightbringer. She’d kept it to herself, and only let her head rest on his shoulder. And smiled, when she’d felt him nose through her untied hair.

But since that afternoon he’d been even more careful, even more tentative, almost skittish around her. He’d taken everything that had happened much harder than she had, really. But she’d waited enough, she really had; and now she wanted it. Him. Now. She didn’t want to be patient anymore. After all his big talk for months on end, as soon as things had gotten closer to real he’d avoided it. It was, in a way, flattering; she liked feeling that she _was_ special, that she _was_ unique, that she meant something – well, to be honest, that she meant everything to him. It wasn’t bragging, it was there in his eyes and in his every gesture. However, contrary to him, she wasn’t immortal and she wouldn’t wait any longer.

She was on a mission.

 

He felt her.

As soon as she step foot in Lux, he felt her; and as the lift carriage went up so did his heart rate. Closer and closer, she was almost there; and maybe this would be the day she’d tell him to stay away, to leave the city, to go back to hell perhaps? He was perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. The reality of who, what he was couldn’t have sunk in yet if she still worked with him, if she still let her child run to him. He soaked everything in to sustain him for the lean days, years – eternity, really – ahead, and he wasn’t strong enough to avoid her entirely; but he didn’t want her to get too close either. What would happen when it finally hit?

And so he kept pretending everything was as before, back when he’d dialled down on the innuendos but before everything had come down on his head. Before the skies themselves, almost literally, had come down. Too much family, too much pain. He’d only wanted a little corner of the world to call his; a building in LA and a fun side job, a demon and a therapist and two pianos. And a Detective he knew would never be his, but might let him stay at her side for a while, for a few happy years maybe.

“Brooding at your piano again?” She was suddenly right against him on the bench, her smell around him and then _in_ him, in his very lungs – if he stopped breathing, could he keep her inside?

“The devil doesn’t brood, Detective.”

“Tell that to someone who’s never met the guy.”

He turned his head to look at her, and his eyes widened slightly. This wasn’t practical, working Chloe; this was You Won’t Know What Hits You Chloe. He reeled a little bit. “What’s… what’s the occasion?”

“Occasion?”

“You’re… you’re always lovely, but you usually don’t…” He waved his hand at her. “Not unless it’s for a case.”

She grinned. “What do you think?”

“I really couldn’t say.” She was inching closer to him on the bench, her long golden hair spilling over his dark red shirt. “I, er. Would you like a drink?” He started to stand up but she settled her fingertips on his wrist, and he sat back, confused.

“I’m not here for a drink, Lucifer. Or for a case.”

“For a song, maybe?”

Her fingers, still on his wrist, curled around it and stopped him from playing anything. “No.” She drew his hand in her lap. “You’re avoiding me.”

“I am not!”

“You are. You’re scared.”

“Of course not. What…”

He couldn’t go on. Her lips, soft and full and careful, were on his; and he felt as lost as he had once between fine sand and grey clouds. All by themselves, his fingers slipped between hers; his body turned on the bench like a sunflower to the biggest star of all in the sky; his other hand rose from the ivories to slide through her hair. He controlled nothing. Nothing. “That’s what I came for,” she whispered against his mouth; and he blinked his eyes open. “I won’t run away. I won’t change my mind.” Her warm breath on his cheek was making him shiver. “Take me to bed. Unless _you’ve_ changed your mind?”

Oh, he hadn’t. And he let her take _him_ to bed.

 

Chloe didn’t remember much of her drunken night so long ago when she’d slept in these very sheets, on this very bed. Maybe, maybe not with Lucifer next to her – she’d never dared to ask him; not that it wasn’t big enough for two people to share in a perfectly chaste way. No one would believe it was a word that could apply to him, to be honest. She’d never told a soul about what had happened – or, well, not happened that night. Her mother, who’d stayed with Trixie, had only seen her note on the kitchen table – _at a friend’s_ – in the morning, and she never asked about it.

Now it was right here in front of her, and Lucifer was right behind her, and she had to be the one to act. He still didn’t quite seem to believe any of what was happening was real, but as long as he wasn’t questioning it she could work with it. “Undress me,” she said.

His arms snaked around her waist, but didn’t do anything else. “Detective…” She dug her nails into his forearms. “Chloe. Are you…”

“Yes.” She got him to take her shirt off, she turned and unbuttoned his, then opened his fly. His breathing was unsteady, and when she looked up she saw how wrecked already he looked. “What is it?”

His knuckles brushed her cheekbone. “Chloe, I… it’s all so different. What do you want?”

“What do _you_ want?” He didn’t seem to have an answer, but when she slid her hand into his underwear his eyes widened and he almost lost his balance, and then she knew what _she_ wanted.

“I want… I can give you the best night of your life.” He tried his usual smooth smile and fell short by a mile or ten, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him so.

“Just the one night?” Her palms settled on his hips and pushed all his clothes down and nudged him on the mattress, and he fell with a surprised oof. “I have plans. Ideas.”

“Diagrams?” he breathed out, looking up at her from where he was sitting.

“Pie charts.” She grabbed a pillow and threw it on the floor, and when she knelt on it he tried to tug her up; but she wouldn’t budge. “This is what I want. Is it okay?”

He wrapped a lock of her hair around his fingers, ran his thumb lightly on her lips. “Anything. If it’s you, anything.” Even killing, even dying; she remembered.

His thighs had a light dusting of dark hair, and the muscles quivered when she ran her fingers, then her lips from his knees up to his groin. She pushed his legs further apart and settled in between, one of her hands gently stroking his calf. “You’re beautiful,” she said, and kissed him. She stroked his shoulder and pushed the dark red fabric of his shirt down his arms and for a while he was stuck there, his hands in his back as he worked at the cufflinks, his gaze still on her. He finally got rid of it all and fisted the sheets on either side of his hips. He was bracing for what was to come, and she decided not to wait any longer.

It was something she’d always enjoyed; the power she wielded, the pleasure she could give. And she was good at it, too; probably also because she loved it. Loved focusing on such a fragile and soft part that grew and hardened and yet remained, somehow, delicate; loved gently scratching the skin around and hearing his breathing quicken; loved holding all of him in her palm and feel him twitch and tighten. “Pretty average,” he’d said once; but they were really not. He was really not. He was hers, held safe and precious in her hands and her mouth and everything she could surround him with. If _she_ had wings, she’d make a feather fort around them both.

Chloe heard the sound of fabric ripping, then. She looked up at him. His chest was heaving, his lips parted, his eyes wide and almost black, all pupils and wonder and something else she didn’t quite have a name for.

She took one on her hands away from his thigh and settled it on his own, encouraging him to let go of the torn sheet and never letting his gaze stray from hers. His fingers finally unfolded and she led them to her face.

“Touch me,” she said.

He only shook his head, combed his fingers through her loose hair, finally resting them on her cheek. His eyes lowered to her lips, probably swollen by now and redder than usual. She moved a little to the side and nipped his thumb, gave it a little lick.

It was, apparently, the last straw. He quickly moved to catch her and half-carried, half-threw her on the bed, right in the middle, and crawled over her until he could tuck his face in her neck and settle his hips right over hers – right where she could hold him with her entire body, snug and warm and right where she wanted him to be. Lucifer wrapped himself all around her, careful and reverend and words in a language she didn’t recognize whispered in her ear; but she understood him. She did.

His dry palm slid from her waist to her hip, then her thigh; hitched it higher around his side and then he curled his entire arm around her leg to bring them even closer.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she breathed out. “I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I did. I’m sorry I left.”

“I know. It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.” His stubble was tickling her shoulder, then lower, lower on her chest. Her breast. It made her shudder. “Talk to me. Just talk to me,” but he was doing other things with his mouth now.

His back curved over her and she heard his breath catch when she moved her leg and it rubbed against him. “Chloe…” His forehead was touching hers and she could see his lids flutter and close, feel the arm he’d slipped under her neck tremble.

“Yes,” she said.

 

He wasn’t quite sure of what was happening right now – around him, in him. He knew his body was acting on its own, by instinct; he could feel Chloe everywhere, he could hear her. Smell her. See her, whenever he managed to open his eyes – and every time he did she opened hers too, and smiled up at him; her pants turning into little cut-off moans sometimes, her teeth biting into her lower lip, she was beautiful and radiant and he was falling, falling.

He was falling up, he was falling in reverse, he was falling into the sky and burning and it was not an ending, no; it was being reborn from the cradle of her arms and her hips and he was a bird of fire with great blazing wings and he was young and new again.

 

He stirred a little when she gently ran her fingernails over his scalp, sighing long and happy. “M’crushing you,” he mumbled. He didn’t move an inch from her collarbone.

“You’re not,” she said and moved her hand a bit lower on his nape, his shoulders. He felt warm, very warm. His eyelashes fluttered a little against her skin.

She looked outside, at the great floor-to-ceiling windows on his bedroom and beyond. Rain was pouring down, rivulets running along the whole length of the panes; but right then the clouds parted and the morning sun shone through again, rending the gray, low sky. When her eyes returned to him, sunlight was delineating the shadows of the rain tracks all over his scarred back. For just a second, she thought she could see it smooth and unmarred again, her hair lifting from her face as if in a sudden gust of wind.

The clouds hid the sun again.

Maybe one day he’d let himself see his father’s love and forgiveness like he, finally, did hers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Because in most fics Lucifer goes down on Chloe and because I'm a contrary person...


End file.
